


Regarding Keith's Good Boy

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bottom Lance (Voltron), Dominance, Good Boy, Kink, M/M, Praise Kink, Rimming, Submission, lance is a good boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Sometimes Keith just needs to remind Lance to be a good boy and take what he wants.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Comments: 8
Kudos: 228





	Regarding Keith's Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

The longer his boss talks, the more Lance panics, because he’s going to fucking break.

He’s going to go blank in the eyes and rake his fingernails down the flesh of his cheeks, right between the two humiliating stress-zits that have been taunting him for three days.

He’s going to bite down too hard on the side of the tongue he’s slid between his teeth to keep calm; going to open his mouth and let the wound loll out of his mouth and bleed all down himself.

He’s going to try to say, “Alright,” or “Okay,” or “Will do,” but it’s going to come out as a long, raspy, monotone scream, right into her face, unceasing as he gets up takes the stairs down to the main floor and picks a direction and starts walking.

As Sanda wraps up (ties a pretty, passive-aggressive bow on all the ways he’s fucked up), he wonders what his face is doing. Is it following his desperate commands to stay neutral with a little placating smile? Or is it twisted with the hysterical frenzy already leaving behind nodes and knots at the base of his skull and down his neck

“Sounds good,” he says.

‘Fuck you,’ he thinks.

“I am a total fuck-up,” he texts Keith.

‘I need you to fuck me up,’ he thinks.

And Keith, bless him and the way he’s shit with people but so, so good with Lance, texts back: “We both know you’re not. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Lance is a…

Lance is a…? He’s a total fuck-up. But he can be…

He _can_ be a…

He gets through the rest of his day, and even manages not to make another mistake.

(Like a…)

He drives home slow and steady, despite the lingering rage in his stomach wanting to crawl down his leg and nudge more insistently against the gas pedal.

( _Like a_ …)

He finds Keith already puttering around the kitchen, and when he makes to jump in and help (because he’s...he’s such a…) he does as he’s told when he's ordered into the living room, where he finds a cold beer cracked and Netflix already open on the TV.

God, for this perfect man, Lance is going to be _such a fucking_ …

“Good boy,” Keith says when he finds Lance tucked on the couch a half hour later, halfway into some trashy reality cooking show.

Lance shivers. He doesn’t feel like one yet—still feels like a fucking mess—but he will, he knows. He _will_. 

Keith drops two plates on the coffee table—simple pasta (probably bland, but Lance will devour it, anyway, because Keith made it for his good–…)—and snaps sharply when Lance reaches for one. Lance freezes; shyly meets those stern indigo eyes; swallows the guilt trying to writhe down into his intestines (because they’ve talked about that; talked about how Keith never, ever wants his good boy to dwell on silly things like _guilt_ ). “Whose?” Keith asks.

“Huh?”

Keith leans in, cups Lance’s jaw, presses a kiss against his temple and then the stupid spots where he’s breaking out, and murmurs against his lips (so he can keep that eye contact, sharp even though their close proximity has the details blurring):

"Whose good boy are you?"

Lance’s jaw shakes.

 _God_.

“Yours,” he answers.

“Do you know that?”

Lance isn’t sure if his expressions are coming across, given how close they are, but his confusion must be clear enough.

"Huh?" he asks again.

“Do you _know_ that you’re _my_ good boy?”

He licks his lips instinctively, before he remembers the position he’s in. The tip of his tongue brushes Keith’s lip and it does nothing but pull him impossibly closer. He leans in so that Lance can’t speak without their bottom lips catching.

“I...I know…”

“Do you? Because it sounded to me like you were awfully concerned with being Sanda’s good boy.”

“ _No_ –!”

He makes to close the gap—to kiss Keith so he knows that Lance isn’t Sanda’s _anything_ beyond _employee_ —but his boyfriend deftly dodges; pulls back so they’re still near, but barely touching.

“No? Do good boys tell lies like that?”

“It’s _not_ a–!”

Fuck, the disappointment on Keith’s face is a paper cut, brutal in its subtlety.

He _is_ Keith’s good boy...he _is_ …

But right now he doesn’t feel that way.

He still feels cluttered and chaotic.

“No,” Lance answers, “I’m sor–”

“No apologies,” Keith says, and the disappointment is gone from his face. There's no hint of it in his tone, either. He’s all round edges and support beams again (because Lance is being honest; being _good_ ). “You don’t need to be sorry with me. Do you need me to remind you?”

The breath Lance takes is silent; shallow; submissive.

“Yes, please,” he whispers.

“Eat something.”

The cold air on Lance’s lips after such prolonged heat is a kiss in itself.

So is the way Keith looks at him: insistent and dependent and openly trusting.

(And he’s going to make good on that trust; going to be so good, so good, so _fucking_ …)

“Okay.”

So they eat. It’s bland, like Lance had expected, and he tells Keith so when he asks.

Because he’s honest, and open, and good.

Keith looks pleased.

And they sag against each other for two more solid hours of garbage TV, and every time Keith asks, “Another episode?” Lance answers, “Yes, please,” even though he knows his boyfriend hates it.

Because he’s honest, and open, and _good_.

Keith looks fucking _pleased_.

And then Keith asks, no preamble, right into his ear when he’s not expecting it, “How do you want it? Want to get your mouth on me?”

And Lance answers, fighting troublesome, guilt-borne impulses to lie, “No. I want you to eat me out.”

Because he’s...

And Keith looks _so_ …

“Where?”

“Here.”

He’s already slipping out of his clothes. It’s unsexy—no finesse—but it gets the job done, and foreplay isn’t what they’re after right now, anyway.

“How?”

Fuck, how _not_? Indulgent and frantic and decadent and…

“Like I’m your...like I…”

He’s already mostly naked, down to his underwear, and he can’t say it, he _can’t_ …

Keith does it for him; leans in and kisses him slow and says into his slack mouth, “Like you’re my good boy?”

Lance whimpers. " _Tell me_. Please?"

This time, Keith’s kiss is quick; hard; frenetic. Lance feels it skitter across his scalp, like each hair follicle is electrified. “You’re my good boy, Lance.”

“Take off your clothes," Lance says.

Keith strips without fanfare; only a mumbled, “Good boy.”

“Kiss me again.”

Keith does.

“ _Harder_ ,” Lance demands, “Like I’m–”

“My good boy, fuck, you _are_ ,” Keith says, and the _ar_ e gets lost in Lance’s mouth as they come together again, faster and messier and closer (harder, just like he’d asked: his reward, because...)

“How?” Keith asks again, hands on Lance’s thighs, thumbs framing the base of his cock. Lance thrusts forward; impales the hollows of his hips on those thumbs.

“Manhandle me.”

Keith’s next _good boy_ is mumbled into the meat of Lance’s shoulder as he overtakes him; shoves him back with his own bodyweight and crushes him into the couch. He bites and nips his way down Lance’s body, and then hauls his hips forward so he can tilt them as he pleases, and presses his legs open before he throws them upward like an afterthought, ordering gruffly, “Hold those.”

Lance wraps his fingers around the backs of his knees and pulls them up toward his chest. Keith tips his hips up even further—folds him in half so his cock rests heavily in the middle of his chest—and drags his tongue down the underside of him and over his balls and down until—

Lance twitches at the first press of his tongue, and then slumps back into the couch with a contented sigh. Keith is aggressive—gives him no time to adjust, just dives in with hard swipes and suction—and Lance leans the fuck into it. Keith is relentless, licking his way around and inside, reaching up to grind his thumb into that spot right behind Lance’s balls that starts a dull, constant, rolling spasm between his jaw and the spots where his fingertips are still digging into the backs of his knees.

With his hands otherwise occupied, Lance is loud. He gasps and groans and waxes poetic about how amazing it feels when Keith _has him_ like this, and Keith is _still_ louder. The noise is fucking _profane_ , and Lance rocks as much as he can against the sloppiness of it. He goes boneless when Keith spreads him open further and presses against him so hard it mashes his head against the armrest. He leaks against his chest; leaves a puddle that pools in the bowl of his throat. 

He could cry when Keith pulls away, but it’s only for a second. Only long enough for him to look up and command Lance:

“Be a good boy and come for me.”

Lance’s jaw drops open. He loses his sweaty grip on his left knee, but manages to keep the leg awkwardly bent out of the way. He goes stiff as Keith dives back in, and digs his thumb in so it almost hurts, and reaches up with his other hand to stroke over his twitching cock…

He comes with a series of jerky thrusts. It throws Keith off-kilter, but it doesn’t matter. Lance is hardly even aware as he shoots over his own chin. “Good boy…” Keith murmurs as he pulls away and works him through his orgasm with his hand and his thumb. “There’s a good boy…”

And he’s hard.

He’s so fucking hard; flushed at the tip and visibly throbbing.

“Close?” Lance asks.

“Yes,” Keith says, a desperate rasp in his voice. “Fuck, Lance, how…?”

“All over me. Come all over your good boy.”

And if there were any doubt up until now just whose _good boy_ Lance is, it disappears as Keith grabs his cock and humps into his own grip once—twice—

And comes all over him.

Literally, mind you. Lance’s folded up position and the way Keith has reared up to be halfway splayed on top of him means that he comes over his boyfriend’s stomach, cheek, arm...it dribbles down over his jaw and behind his ear; down around his neck to the nape. “Look at that,” Lance pants afterward, “You’re a good boy, too.”

It causes a shiver that, while not unexpected, is surprisingly strong and full-bodied. “You need to give me,” Keith pants back, “at least twenty minutes before you call me that.”

Lance laughs, and pulls him down to cuddle, even though it puts them both over several wet spots. “Duly noted. Twenty minutes it is." He nuzzles in close. "I’ll be a good boy and wait.”


End file.
